


Chevy Thunder

by spooningwithisa (upriserseven)



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:59:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upriserseven/pseuds/spooningwithisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florabella AU based on the song "Chevy Thunder" by Spector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chevy Thunder

You just liked the idea of it all, didn’t you? You liked the thrill, the rebellion, and probably the fact that you knew I’d give anything for you. But here we are. You told me you loved me and here I am alone, running away in tears just like I knew I would. Getting away from it all, from you, from everything as fast as I can possibly manage.

I can’t remember a word you said after “I’m not coming with you, Isa”. I’m sure you claimed it was hurting you as much as me. The empty seat by my side says differently. Autopilot on, I don’t even feel like I’m driving anymore. I don’t know where I’m going, if I’m going anywhere, if I even want to. Part of me wants to rev the engine, let my tears and the rain cloud my senses and let the inevitable happen. 

You were too young for me, that’s what I told myself when we met. Six years isn’t a lot, but the six years between eighteen and twenty-four are life changing. I repeated it, like my personal mantra, day after day, minute after minute, every day until the first time your lips crashed into mine and never again since. You certainly didn’t seem too young, didn’t feel too young, sound too young. You didn’t have the touch, the words, the soul of a eighteen year old. 

You were, though. You were too young for me. 

I can hear it on loop. _I’m not coming with you_. My name sounded poisonous, it sounded like salt in a wound, nails on a chalkboard, like rain first thing in the morning or hearing your death sentence. _I’m not coming with you_. It makes me feel physically sick as it echoes, like it’s bouncing off the empty walls inside my head. It was all you. You filled every corner of my brain, my heart, my life. I never realised how empty it would all be without you. I never imagined I’d be without you. 

When the car stops, I realise I’ve done that. I stood on the brakes and I can’t quite figure out why until I see the water beside me. I stand in front of it and it reminds me of you. Your fascination with water, with drowning, with the beautifully macabre. I realise that’s why I came here, but I won’t do it. I won’t be a tragedy for you to turn into lyrics one day; I won’t give you the satisfaction of turning your obsession into my own selfish act. 

_I’m not coming with you_.

There was a time that your voice was my favourite source of comfort, now all I can hear is spite. The musician in me wants to go home, listen to the recordings we made and pick apart your vocals like the harshest critic, but I feel it would only lead me back to this spot. I think of all the lyrics you’ve written, try to find some hidden message, a warning you were going to break me. I think of the blood and guts, the death and the darkness, but none of it points to me. I wonder if that’s worse. You never even thought to write a song for me. You wrote of birds, of Ophelia and of King Midas, but never of me. 

I’ll go back to the car. I’ll go back and I’ll drive somewhere, anywhere. I’ll start anew. I’ll forget you and one day, when your name is in lights (because it will be, and I can’t deny it to myself no matter how much I’d like to), I’ll pretend I’m fine. I’ll analyse the lyrics and hope for an apology to the girl you let drive away in a Chevy, black streaks on her face, heart ripped in two, clinging to her last shred of dignity.


End file.
